


Paper Trail

by Kendas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book Fetish, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:27:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22630213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendas/pseuds/Kendas
Summary: Hermione’s been following a paper trail that someone has been leaving her for six months, now it seems that her quarry is getting tired of the chase.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	Paper Trail

**a.N:** this isn’t new, just uploading old stories from my livejournal.

****

Paper Trail

Hermione clutched the book to her chest, gently stroking the warm, worn leather of the obscure potions volume, which she had sought out in one of the dustier corners of the Hogwarts library. This particular volume, however, was conspicuously clean and free from dust. It had already been in this uncontaminated state upon on Hermione’s discovery of it, even though both of its neighbours had a thick layer of grime permeating the edges of their pages and clinging to their bindings.

Hermione pressed the book closer, letting her head drop so that her nose could dip down and sniff the parchment bound within it. She was so certain that this was the right book. 

Hermione slipped through the tall stacks in the library, moving between the rows of books and tombs, some magical, some mundane, but all were equally intriguing to her, well, nearly all; there were, in fact, two exceptions. If she ever heard another line from _Quidditch through the Ages_ again, Hermione was sure she would brake with every code of conduct she had ever set herself pertaining to the proper care of books, and would rip the damned volume apart. The second referred to the book in her arms. For right at that moment, Hermione desired this particular book, and what she hoped it would contain, beyond all others.

She had been searching the library for it for over two weeks. Of course at first she had not known what she was looking for. That was the way of things, the pattern that she had fallen into. Searching for something out of place, looking for the one book that did not quite fit into its surroundings. She never found it that way though; no, not once in the past six months since her habit had started and her obsession had been sparked. Instead she always had to wait for the clue and always, even that first time, there had been a clue, one that would lead her searching in a new direction and suddenly the book would appear. It might be an Arithmancy text sitting amongst the Divination section, or a book on the history of the Wizarding world perched between those on Muggle history. But she was always led to it.

Hermione dropped down into the chair that she had moved four months ago into the quite secluded part of the library, which she had now wound her way to. This was her haven. This was the place which she always retreated to in order to read the prized, hard sought volumes like the one she now moved her fingers across reverently, slightly scared to open it, just in case what she sought was absent, but desperate for the little titbit that the book hopefully contained.

Biting down on her lip and momentarily closing her eyes, Hermione opened the potions volume and began to leaf through its pages, meticulously looking for a scrap of paper. She found her quarry under chapter fourteen; _The Expanded Uses of Hellebore and Suggestions for Its Preparation_.’ Hermione sighed with relief and snapped the torn parchment up, her fingers tracing the folds and rips of the paper before she dared to open it.

It was a quote that Professor Snape had referenced in last Wednesday’s Potions lesson that had led her to this book. The class had been taking notes that day on the uses of Hellebore in advanced potion making, and the professor had made a passing comment to some suggestions that were included within a fifteenth century potions journal. Hermione had seized that piece of information and filed it away in the hope that if she sought the book out she might find such a note as she was holding now in her hands. 

There was a reason why she had expected – all right, hoped – to find a note inside the book, which, according to the date label at the front, had not been removed from the library in the past fifteen years. The reason had to do with a pattern that had begun the previous October after a Transfiguration class.

In that particular class they had been studying theory concerning the moral practicalities of the transfiguration of animals and plants into inanimate objects. It was a topic that Hermione found particularly intriguing and she was considering it as a possible option for her end of year assignment. When McGonagall had quoted a book on the subject, which Hermione had not heard of before, she had immediately decided to search for the text that day after class, even if meant having to miss lunch. On the way there, however, she had been delayed by a weeping first year and Hermione had felt compelled to comfort the younger student. When she had eventually reached the library Hermione discovered that the book in question was missing and she had felt furious with irritation. 

It had taken two weeks of frustrated searching and combing of the library’s shelving before she unearthed it, and when she did it had been completely by accident. Another Professor had referenced a tome on an entirely separate subject, and when Hermione had gone to withdraw the book for a bit of bedtime reading, she had discovered the Transfiguration volume on the shelf beside it. 

To say that she had been elated with her find would be an understatement. Hermione had immediately plucked the book from the shelf and slumped down on the floor to read it, her legs crossed and the book spread open upon them.

That had been where she had found the first note.

Slipped between the pages – marking the section McGonagall had quoted in class – was a folded piece of parchment, its edges marred with an inky thumbprint and a smear of coffee.

She had opened it, curious about what it had contained, and had found a quote from a favoured Muggle book of hers.

_"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."_

Underneath was written the words, ‘find me’ in deliciously elegant calligraphy and Hermione had been unable to resist their command.

Searching the Muggle literature section in the far reaches of the library, she found the book from which the quote was taken, and there slid in-between the yellowed pages of Hogwarts copy of Pride and Prejudice was another note, this one entirely different from the first.

_‘I watched you today. Your chin tilted proudly up as Draco Malfoy taunted you about your hair. I heard him when he said that it looked like a birds nest. He never was very original with his words. Still, all I wanted to do throughout your entire exchange was to muss up your hair even more.  
I stood there watching you and wondering whether you would still look so proud if I had just come inside your mouth.   
Wondered if your chin would still be tilted up while you were on your knees in front of me and I fucked your pretty mouth, my hand fisted in your gorgeous hair as you sucked me off, your mouth warm and your tongue swirling over my cock.   
I bet you would look fucking beautiful.   
Would your eyes flash angrily like they do at Malfoy’s pathetic mocking, if I were to whisper dirty things to you as I spilled my come over your breasts?   
I’ve been wondering these things far too much lately.’_

Hermione felt torn between outrage and arousal. The note was dirty and she was sure her feminist sensibilities should be feeling quite put out by its tone, but she could not help but wonder about its author.

She wondered that afternoon in Defence against the Dark Arts what he might look like and how he had could have known she was looking for that particular book. She had only told Harry, Ron and Ginny about her frustrations of not being able to locate it, and this was definitely not one of them; of that she was certain.

She wondered that night at dinner, as she looked around the Great Hall, what House he might be in. She was certain he could not be Hufflepuff, maybe Ravenclaw though.

Then, that night, in her bed, she had pulled the dirty little note from her bedside draw and re-read it, wondering how the things he described would feel, for Hermione had never done _that_. The summer before her seventh year had begun she had lost her virginity to a boy she had met while on holiday with her parents in the South of France, but she had never once taken him in her mouth. The idea had not appealed to her and he had never pressed her. Now, though, after reading the little note, she found herself wondering about it.

The note, at least on the surface, made the act sound rather sordid, crude language accentuating that fact. But Hermione was shocked to discover she found the vulgar phasing particularly arousing.

Thankful for the curtains drawn tightly around her bed, Hermione slipped her hand beneath the duvet, playing the images over, imagining herself on her knees before some dark, faceless man. As her fingers pumped inside her, rubbing and pushing, almost roughly, against her walls and her clit, Hermione decided that she quite liked the idea of taking someone into her mouth. She imagined that the experience, instead of being demeaning, could instead prove quite empowering. 

It was with that thought on her mind and the idea of warm liquid spurting inside her mouth that she came, back arched and one hand clamped across her mouth so that the other girls would not hear.

More notes had followed that one, creating a pattern and a trend. Some book would be referenced in class, one that Hermione would find particularly intriguing and when she would look for it in the library it would be missing. Another reference would often lead her to it; there she would find some Muggle literary reference. These seeming to build up a seduction, progressing an imaginary relationship through a collection of novels, moving it from initial dislike, to curiosity, to confusion, to more. Each of these quotes would also lead her to another book and an enchantingly explicit note that seemed to link some observation her admirer had made to the quote which had led her to find it. 

Hermione was addicted to the little trail of clues and notes. Finding one was always the highlight of her week. Still, she was always left wondering about their mysterious author, and with each note she wanted to discover their identity all the more.

Hermione’s fingers slipped between the newest piece of folded parchment, prying it open with slow desperation as she savoured each moment of anticipation.

__

“Sex and beauty are inseparable, like life and consciousness. And the intelligence which goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.”

Hermione groaned aloud. Whoever it was that kept leaving the notes had the damnedest way of finding the exact line from a book that would make her melt. She ran her finger over the inked words as though her if they would be able feel the impression that the quill had made on the parchment. She found this line particularly erotic, it made her think of long talented fingers and lips pressing against hers in some dimly lit corner. It made her think of dark eyes and bodies pressing together, tangled in sheets. It made her wonder what his voice sounded like, what it would sound like reading the written lines aloud.

There was only one problem with this line; Hermione could not quite place it, and that was frustrating. Maddeningly so, for she wanted nothing more than to locate the deliciously dirty note she was certain would follow this. Then she could sneak back up to her room, draw the curtains around her bed and slide her hand below the waistband of her knickers.

Hermione wondered if she had read this book. She felt certain she would have remembered such a line if she had.

She sighed and, tucking the book under the arm, rose from her seat to make her way back through the library to the Muggle Literature section.

The extent of Hogwarts’ collection of Muggle novels was larger than Hermione would have expected, but smaller than she would have liked, and it’s collection of books was rather varied, giving a browser of the shelves just a taste of some of the more well known authors and genre’s to emerge from the Muggle world. The books were used quite infrequently and when they were, it was usually by those students studying the more advanced Muggle Studies classes. Muggle-borns at Hogwarts used them on occasion also, but mostly they brought with them their own favourites and swapped and shared them with their classmates. The novels contained within the Muggle section were not always popular choices amongst the majority of Hermione’s peers, though select books contradicted this fact.

Hermione swung the set of step ladders around the shelves until it leant against the stack housing author’s whose surnames began with ‘a’.

_This is going to take some time,_ she thought to herself as she began to search through the books, removing any that she thought the quote may have came from and that she had not read. It was a daunting task, but Hermione was nothing if not determined and, after all, the reward would be worth it, she assured herself.

Hermione moved her way along the shelves, taking book after book, flicking through their pages, searching for the quote and a scrap of paper. By the time that she reached ‘k’ she was beginning to be sorely tempted to just up end each book and shake them to see if something might fall out, but Hermione had too much respect for the leather and paper bound stories to do something like that, something that could so easily cause them damage.

As she reached the l’s Hermione was almost ready to give up. She was almost halfway through, and she still had not found any sign of the book that contained her quarry. Taking the next book from the shelf, one she had often intended to read, but as yet had not got around to, _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ by D.H. Laurence, the terrible thought that perhaps she had overlooked the book containing the quote in her eagerness to find it, flittered through her mind.

Hermione looked down at the book in her hand, feeling her cheeks heat at the slightly suggestive painting of a man unbuckling his belt that graced its worn paper cover. Hermione decided that perhaps it was time to take a break and to allow herself to take some time out to read a book she had put off for far too long.

Tucking the book under her arm as she had done earlier with the potions journal, she began her decent down the steps. Her mind was elsewhere though, still preoccupied with the finder of the quote that had led her here. Her belly was doing summersaults. Her skin felt hot every time she allowed herself to remember the lines he had penned in his beautifully elegant scrawl. There was a tight feeling low in her abdomen and her knickers were still wet from when she had first found the book. What she wanted, even more than the note she searched for, was its author and for the acts he wrote about to become real. So distracting were her thoughts that she raised the arm that clutched the book to wipe at her face, and it was only the thud as it hit the floor that reminded her of its presence.

Guilt swamped Hermione as she peered to her left, down at the unfortunate book lying sprawled, its pages creased, on the floor below her. So mortified by the result of her lapse, Hermione almost missed the pale cream parchment that was peeking out of the spread pages. 

Almost, but not quite. 

Her heart gave a leap and her decent quickened as she was eager to see if her suspicions were correct. Hermione collapsed onto the floor and snatched the fallen book up, opening the pages to where the parchment peeked out. Her eyes immediately sought out the quote on the page, needed to clarify in her mind before she risked opening the folded parchment that this was the correct book. Half way down the page the word sat staring back at her, and though they lacked the beautiful script and alluring intrigue they had held when she had first read them, they still made her sigh aloud.

Hermione’s eyes finally rested again of the new note, and for a moment she considered opening it where she stood. However, there was something about the little ritual she had built up over the past few months, involving her secluded little nook of the library and the comfy chair that was too appealing for her to resist.

Tucking the book into her bag to read later, Hermione made her way back through the library, the note clutched in her hand as she fingered the corners while wondering what it might contain. When she discovered her answer she was sorely disappointed, for on the page, instead of a salacious paragraph, was a simple line.

This was not the pattern her mysterious author followed and Hermione was feeling quite disorientated by his deviance. It did not help that she was particularly confused by his choice of words or topic.

__

“What great hands you have!”

She looked down at her own hands, confused as to why he would be complimenting her on them and doing so in such a bland manner. She had expected… well, perhaps something linked to the first quote, but this? No, she had not expected this. Had he then gone on to explain what he imagined her doing with said great hands then, perhaps, she would have been left feeling less miffed. There really was not anything special about them anyway and that in itself was odd. He always seemed to pick something that was unique to her.

It had been her pride in the first note and his fascination with that and how he could break it. She had been left feeling that he had decided he did not really want to.

The second note had shocked her as she read of his fantasy to scrawl potions notes and his name all over her body with green ink like she did in class. That night she had twirled her quill in her hand as she lay in bed, the feather brushing her nipple as she imagined herself spread beneath her mystery man whilst he used her body as she would a roll of parchment. Never had she since been able to pen reminders on her hand without being reminded of his words and not shiver.

Another had been more innocent, but none the less erotic. A simple description of an ink stain on her neck and exactly how he would have liked to remove it as he watched her. This one was one of Hermione’s favourites and she allowed herself a moment to think back on the memorised note.

_I followed you out of class today. Watched as you made your way with those two friends of yours down to the Quidditch stands, shirking your cloak as you went.  
I sat behind you in the shadows.  
I’ve never been so glad of the heat before today.  
Watching mesmerised as your fingers toyed and loosened your red and gold tie, wishing that you would keep going so I could finally see you naked.  
I bet you would look like a goddess nude.  
I bet you have great tits. I’m certain you have the most biteable arse.  
I’m sure I should not be thinking that about you, of all people; my mother would likely have a fit._

_It was when you tied your hair up, eager to keep the locks away from your skin, that I saw it. It was just a small smudge, a thumb print perhaps, a few inches below and behind your ear, marring the skin.  
If it was my finger print it could have stayed._

_But it wasn’t._

_I had to fight the urge to stand and move behind you, because I really shouldn’t want to touch you so much.  
I would have wrapped an am around your waist, drawn you back into my lap, nudging your head to one side with my nose.  
I would have licked my index finger and ran it slowly over the mark in small circles, re-wetting it at least once, for I’m certain the ink would have proved as stubborn as its owner._

_When it was almost gone, I would have leant down and kissed the spot gently, removing any remaining traces with my tongue.  
I bet you would have been whimpering by this point, wiggling your pretty behind and making me hard, and that’s when I would have lost it.  
I’d have bit you, sucked your sweet skin into my mouth, nibbling at it and leaving my own mark, one that only time or magic would remove.  
Fuck, I wanted you so much today that I almost gave in, but then your friends returned and we were saved._

It was this note that had convinced her he was a pure-blood, and one who had clearly been brought up to think less of those his family saw as beneath him. _Maybe Slytherin is an option for his House as well as Ravenclaw_ , Hermione had thought. It was this note that had made Hermione fall. She remembered wishing she had not been saved. She remembered wishing that her woodcutters had not turned up.

And that was when she realised.

Hermione’s eyes opened and she glanced down at the page again recognising the words written there as a quote.

It was still deviating from his usual path, but now she had hope. She knew what line was supposed to follow the one that he had picked and she really hoped that it meant what she hoped it might.

Hermione went to stand, her blood pumping so loud in excitement that she could hear her pulse thumping in her ear. She was so distracted she almost missed it, but her eyes were caught by its bright red cover beaming out from between the dull brown of its neighbours. It was standing slightly forward from the other books on the shelf; whoever had placed it there obviously wanted it to be found. Upon the cover Hermione read the title of the volume and grinned. There in bold black letters stood its title, _The Brother Grimm’s Fairytales,_ and Hermione knew she had been correct in her assumption.

Standing from her chair confidently, Hermione made her way to the book, the note falling almost forgotten to the floor to lie atop her bag. Her fingers grazed the books spine, before gripping it more firmly as she started to slide it out.

Suddenly, she was pressed into the bookcase, her hand abandoning the red bound book to seek her wand.

She looked down to her pocket in an attempt to locate it and was just in time to see long, dark chocolate fingers wrap around her wrist and pin her wand arm against the edge on a shelf.

Someone tall was leaning into her, forcing her flush against the shelving, pressing against her just hard enough to be intimidating without allowing it to become painful.

A second hand gripped her left and raised it in a similar fashion to the first while their owner’s head nudged her hair out of the way and placed a kiss against the shell of her ear.

“The better to touch you with,” a deep, sultry voice whispered in her ear, while thumbs moved in enticing circles over the inside of her wrists, the combination of which caused Hermione to shudder and bite her lip in order to contain the whimper which was threatening to break.

“Who… who are you?” Hermione whispered, a breathy quality forcing its way into her voice that would have made her wince if she could have heard herself.

“I’m surprised it took you so long to find the D.H. Lawrence quote; why, it almost looked as though you hadn’t read it,” the boy said quietly, avoiding her question. “I’m surprised you were so careless with my note too. Dropping it to the floor as if it was nothing. Tell me, Hermione, didn’t you like my choice of quotes this time?”

I… er… No! What I mean is…”

“Or were you possibly too flustered by the thought of the one that it would lead you too, hmm? The one nestled in the pages of that little red book pressing against your breasts. Lucky little book, my cock would love to swap places with it.”

This time Hermione could not withhold the groan or stop her bottom from wiggling back against the boy’s groin to make sure that said cock was nestled happily between her cheeks.

“You are far too tempting,” he groaned behind her, the vibrations of the noise reverberating through his chest and into Hermione’s back. “And, Merlin knows, I have tried to resist. I often wonder if you know how much of an effect you have on me. Sometimes, I think you do it on purpose. Do you?” He pressed against her slightly harder, a frustrated growl nipping at the edges of his voice.

Hermione was too preoccupied with the feel of him pressing into her. Her mind was full of every note of his that she had read in the past six months. Every dirty line or word she had read, every fantasy she had entertained, and every boy she had looked at, wondering if it was him. Her mind wondered what this note said, wondered if it existed.

“Are you thinking about what my note says?”

Hermione nodded. She was unable to think of much else.

“Would you like me to read it to you.” 

His nose was nuzzling her shoulder. She could feel him trying to push her collar out of the way to reach the skin below it.

“Please!”

“To what are you saying please to, little Gryffindor,” he said, chuckling against the fabric.

Hermione was sure that she had been answering his question, but now he was asking her to elaborate she was unsure if she had meant something else.

“The note,” she answered at last.

His fingers moved from her wrists, uncurling her fists which she had unconsciously clenched and placing her open hands around the edge of the shelf. “Don’t move them,” he commanded.

Hermione found herself willingly complying. Right at that moment she was willing to bet she would have done anything he asked if it meant he kept touching her, pressing against her and if he would just tell her what he had written.

“I was watching you earlier. I always do. Can’t help it. You’re like a drug. Theo says I shouldn’t watch you so much, in case the others catch on. I know Millicent is suspicious, but she would never tell.” His voice had an almost musical lilt to it. There was an accent there, but it was so watered down that Hermione could not quite place where it was from. 

_Somewhere in Europe though._

“I know your routines. I have your timetable memorized. Does that worry you? It worries me. Sometimes I lie in bed after I’ve wanked about you, thinking how wrong it is.”

His hands were tracing up the inside of her arms rolling and pulling the long sleeves of her shirt up, tickling and teasing her skin. Hermione’s head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes closed as she soaked up the sensation. It was already so much more than she had imagined.

“I knew you would be here, and, of course, I knew that eventually you would find that potions text. I’d hoped so much that today would be the day. So much so that I altered a few of my plans to make sure that you did. I’ve waited too long, Hermione. I thought I’d be able to get you out of my brain, but I haven’t.”

His hands were on her shoulders now, massaging the muscles there slowly, his fingers occasionally digging in almost harshly, but the pain was invigorating, it stopped Hermione from drifting too far off in the bliss-induced haze that his body and voice was creating. It kept her aware enough to concentrate on his words and pick up any clues that he might drop.

“I watched you hunting through the stacks for the book. I almost spoilt my cover when I had to chase off some little second year that was staring up your skirt. Can’t say I blame him though. I was doing the same.”

His hands had eased around the front of her neck, one was stroking her throat while the other loosened her tie. Hermione let herself moan as he placed a light kiss under her ear. Maybe she should have been annoyed at his attitude towards her blood, it was clear that he resented the fact she was Muggle-born, but she could not, she was just too pleased he was not allowing it to prevent him from touching her.

“I bet you have a pretty little cunt, Hermione. Bet it tastes fucking delicious. Bet it feels fantastic.”

Hermione arched her back at the thought of his head between her thighs, her nails digging into the wooden shelf he had placed her hands on. Her arse pressed into him, rubbing against his erection and causing him to thrust against her, his hand tightening momentarily on her throat as he growled.

“Careful, little Gryffindor,” he warned, his fingers finally releasing the knot on the tie and whipping it away from her neck.

Hermione bit her lip as she imagined him tying the fabric around her wrists, securing them together. Her eyes flittered closed as she allowed herself to dwell on that particular fantasy.

“I stood there in the shadows watching you search. Imagining myself pulling you down the ladders and pushing you against the bookcase. I imagined how you would feel, your body under mine. Would you fight against me? Would you be scared? Disgusted? Or would you be wanton, and press back, seeking more of my attention? I’m rather pleased to discover your reaction fits the latter. Much as it would delight me to feel you writhing beneath me, I have no wish to harm you or force you in this. Draco would be disgusted if he knew I wanted to protect a mu… Muggle-born.”

The top button of Hermione’s shirt popped open, interrupting the boy’s meandering’s. His voice was powerful, just how Hermione had imagined. But all she could think about was the fingers slowly unbuttoning her shirt. She wanted to feel his large, dark hands surrounding her breasts. She was silently agreeing with the wolf. Great hands were all the better for touching with. She wished she could touch him, but she remembered his demand and forced her hands to stay fixed on the shelf, though it took quite a lot of effort for her to keep them there. 

“I do, however, want to feel you clenching around my fingers. I want to know what you look like as you come apart. I want to mark you so that everyone knows you’re mine. I used to think, back at the start, when I first started to notice you, that once I had you, I could get on with life; now… now I’m not so certain.”

The last of her buttons fell open and she felt the tails of her shirt being pulled from her skirt. A hand, warm and smooth, slid over her belly, moved up over her rib cage and cupped one full breast in its palm. Hermione bet he had perfectly manicured nails to go with the baby smooth skin on his hand.

Hermione felt lips hovering just above the skin of her neck. “Which was your favourite note?” he whispered huskily.

“The ink stain,” Hermione half groaned back in reply.

“I was so close to giving into you that day. I wanted you so much. I watched you for ages in that stand; I almost stood up when you were sucking on the end of that sugar quill.”

“Please!” Hermione whimpered, pressing back into him, pushing her neck up to where she sensed his lips, hoping to push him into some sort of action other than the slow, tormenting caress of the hand on her belly, tickling her hip and the torturous movements of his thumb against her nipple.

“So polite, my little lion. How can I refuse?” 

Full lips descended on her neck. His tongue laved the skin before biting it in the way he had described in the note Hermione was so fond of. The hand on her hip moved and began hiking up her skirt.

“This is what I wrote about, Hermione,” the boy said, releasing her skin. “I wanted to feel you pressed against these books you love so much; wanted to slide my hand inside your bra, touch these tits, which I knew would be so bloody gorgeous. Wanted to fuck you against the shelves, wanted to hear you whisper my name as I pushed inside you.”

Pain laced, momentarily, through Hermione’s side as her pants were torn from her. She felt a finger lightly graze over her pubic hairs, the gentleness of the gesture almost made Hermione giggle as she compared it to the roughness of the one preceding it. The boy stilled behind her at that moment though, making fear grip her that he had come to his pure-blooded senses.

“Do you know who I am, Hermione?” The question was almost cold, almost bitter, it was as though the owner was steeling themselves for disappointment.

Hermione hesitated. She was pretty certain she had the right answer. In the past few months, clues that she had sought from his notes had presented her with a short list of potential candidates. And she had today’s observations to narrow the list further. Still, if she was wrong…

“Come on, Hermione, we all know you are bright. I know you can figure this out.”

There was an almost begging quality to the demand, but there was still no mistaking it as anything but a demand.

“Blaise Zabini,” Hermione breathed the name so quietly it was a wonder he had heard it. But heard it he had.

Fingers thrust inside her. She’d been wet since she had read the first quote that day. Then, after the anticipation of the search from the second, and having spent the last few minutes pressed to the wall by the handsome Slytherin, Hermione felt certain that even her thighs had to be wet. She was glad of the fact as his fingers pumped roughly in and out of her, the smooth pad of his thumb brushing over her clit. 

Hermione could not help the smile that graced her face, she had hoped on more than one occasion when she allowed herself to consider the mystery writer’s identity that it was Blaise Zabini. His had been the face that graced the majority of her fantasies. It was him that she had first thought of when she had seen the hand gripping her wrist. The tall black boy was both intelligent and alluring, regardless of what Ginny thought about the smug git, regardless what she thought herself, Hermione had never been able to deny that he was sexy. She certainly was not about to change her opinion now that his hands were eliciting such an intense feeling in her. His fingers were touching just the right spot, their continuous attention making her think that if she did not come soon she might very well cry.

Hermione lifted her right hand from the shelf and attempted to seek out his hip, wanting to touch him, needing to grip onto something that might give under her hand unlike the shelf. She was so close to grasping one of the softer bound books, but she could not do that, her nails might scratch them.

“What did I tell you Hermione?” The voice was a growl in her ear.

Hermione felt his tongue flick out and lick at her lobe as the hand that had been tending to her breasts descended to thread its fingers through the hand she had gripped his waistband with. 

Blaise lifted her hand and placed it back on the shelf, reiterating his words from earlier, “Don’t move them or I’ll stop.”

“I bet you wouldn’t,” Hermione teased, feeling bold and earning herself a chuckle from the boy behind her.

“Was that a dare, little Gryffindor?” Blaise purred, nuzzling her neck and teasing the sensitive skin from the mark he had placed there earlier. “You shouldn’t make bets you are afraid to loose, you know. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”

“I’m not afraid to lose,” Hermione replied defiantly.

“Is that so?” His voice was smug. Hermione could picture the smirk that must surely have passed over his face as he spoke. Blaise removed his hand from her folds, and raised it in front of her face, slightly to the side.

Hermione followed the hand’s movement, glistening with her arousal, watching as it disappeared over her shoulder, fascinated, turning her head only to see it disappear between two full lips. She sighed.

Blaise’s eyes caught her watching him and he arched an eyebrow at her, winking playfully. “Guess I’m not having much of an effect on you then, eh? If you don’t mind me stopping.”

“Blaise!” Hermione whined. She had been so close. She had been able to feel her climax building, but now he had withdrawn those lovely talented fingers and the feeling that had built within her had begun to ebb away.

“Yes? Changed your mind about something?” His hand trailed down over her cheek.

“Blaise!”

“I have one fantasy that I have never written about concerning you, Hermione. I always found this one the scariest. I don’t like being scared of anything, but this scared me.”

“What is it?”

Blaise looked at her and there was a war raging over his face as though he was fighting with himself. “I shouldn’t want you like this. Fucking you is one thing, but this…” His hand tightened on her cheek, pressing her face towards his as his eyes strayed down to Hermione’s mouth.

Hermione swallowed, her eyes fixing on his mouth, almost lifting her hands from the shelf with the distraction that his lips were posing. She wanted so much to feel him kiss her. Really kiss her. Not her neck, or her ear, or her hand, but her mouth. And then he was leaning in, kissing her, his tongue demanding entrance. Hermione could feel his hand working on the buttons of his trousers, knuckles brushing against her arse as he popped each one open.

Blaise dropped his hand from her cheek, letting her mouth go with a mutual groan and a mutter of ‘need you.’ He pulled her skirt back up and, for a moment, Hermione felt the warmth of his erection pressing against the flesh of her back side. She only had a moment to register it, before Blaise was pulling her back by the hips, bending her slightly at the waist, nudging her legs apart, whispering a contraception charm against her shoulder and pressing his cock inside her.

“Fuck!”

The expletive was quiet, no more than a hiss, but Hermione could not help but nod her agreement and she flexed her hips back against him, taking him deeper inside.

Her fingers stayed fixed to the shelves, not willing to challenge his promise to stop and the suggested declaration that he would be able. Hermione might not have believed him capable, but that did not mean she was willing to test the theory.

Hermione gasped as Blaise’s fingers found her clit, switching between the gentlest of caresses and rough twists. When she came, Blaise was only moments behind, one of his hands turning her head to capture her lips again as he came, shuddering, behind her, smirking with satisfaction against the skin of her neck.

~*~

Hermione sat in the chair in her office, a smile playing on her lips as she looked down at the page in front of her. Her fingers reached out to lovingly stroke the page of the novel she had set aside to read during her break, a present from her husband for their one-year anniversary. She found the edge of the folded parchment, which had been nestled inside the book.

She chuckled to herself as she picked the note up, her finger tracing the fold before to allowed herself to open it.

_“Never trust the artist. Trust the tale.”_

Hermione grinned. She could not wait to get home.

_~Finis~_

**A.N.** Right first a big thanks to my beta **Freetheelves2**. Next the origins of the quotes I used…

 **"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."**  
Is from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

**“Sex and beauty are inseparable, like life and consciousness. And the intelligence which goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.”**  
and  
 **“Never trust the artist. Trust the tale.”**

Are from Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence

**“What great hands you have!”**  
and  
 **“The better to touch you with.”**  
Are from Little Red Cap by The Brother’s Grimm


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